Awakenings
by JetNoir
Summary: When an assassination goes horribly wrong, Kirika must rescue Mirielle from an agoraphobic, who is intent on protecting herself.
1. Part One

_**Note:** When I watched Noir for the first time - about a year and a half ago - I ended up writing 'Black Rain' after episode 13...then nothing for the fandom since. So, while revisiting this astonishing series for the umpteenth time (and just having watched The Assassination Play), I came up with this; which I hope you enjoy._

**A w a k e n i n g s**

**part one by JetNoir**

Paris in autumn is a beautiful time in the city. The ancient stones cluttered by windswept leaves, a cacophony of gold and green and red.

But sometimes red can mean blood. Paris in autumn can be very, very beautiful…but it can also be extremely dangerous.

--

Mireille Bouquet would have cried if she had thought it would make any difference, but she knew it was pointless. She must remain calm…there would be a way out. She had gotten out of tighter situations than this.

Her view was obscured by an extremely bright light, and so she was resigned to keeping her eyes closed. Yet she listened.

There was only one person in the room with her…simple enough to take out; if she could only get the damn restraints off first!

"You have been most rude, child," said the figure, in a distinctly feminine voice; despite it's deep tone. It would be best described as a whisky voice, and Mireille attributed it to an older - but not old - woman. It had to be the target, and she listened to see what else she might pick up. "You do not tell me your name, and I only know that you are Noir. You have been sent to kill me, and you do not tell me by whom. I am loathe to resort to torture, but you leave me with little choice. Who are you, and whom do you work for?"

There was a long pause, and Mireille waited, hoping, even daring for her partner to find her.

Before the figure grew bored of waiting.

--

Kirika Yumura was lost.

Normally understandable, but for one of her mindset, she found it puzzling. The house she was exploring was huge, easily one of the largest in Paris, owned by a rich recluse. It was that recluse who she was trying to find and murder.

--

Seven hours ago, rain had swept through Paris's leaf-strewn streets, the pounding sound comfortable as it crashed down on the roof; loud and uncompromising. Kirika loved the contradiction, as she stood gazing out the window.

"So?" asked Mireille, elegantly placing an errant strand of thick blonde hair behind her ear, her tone soft, one eye on the computer screen, the other on her partner, "Are we taking the job?"

"It seems strange," replied Kirika.

"Many of our job's are strange."

"There's strange…and then there's strange. This is the latter. Mireille, we nothing about the target. Just a name, and a bizarre reputation."

"Deborah Conroy, rich, English, agoraphobic recluse. Nothing bizarre there."

Kirika turned to look at Mireille: "Just think about it. Agoraphobic. What could she have done to deserve such attention?"

Mireille sighed impatiently: "Kirika…if you start thinking about every job…No, let me rephrase. Kirika, you can't worry about the job. Yes, we'll have to be careful, but we always are anyway. We sweep away whatever our clients want. And if we refuse, another assassin will be assigned."

"So you want it to be us?"

"Why not us?"

"Why not?" said Kirika, "It just seems wrong." She shook her head: "But you're right, Mireille. We'll take the job."

Mireille smiled pleasantly: "Well then, I'll inform our client. Do you want a short visit to the sewer? Some training?"

"No, thank you. Let's just do it."

"Alright, then."

--

Six hours later, the two assassins infiltrated Ms Conroy's house, finding it to be deserted…and huge.

"Well," said Mireille, "considering what we know of Ms Conroy, I assume she is here somewhere. I think we'd better split up."

"All right," said Kirika quietly, "I'll take left."

--

An hour ago they had gone separate ways, and Kirika couldn't find her partner, or the target. She was worried, and unhappy. It shouldn't be going like this.

Holding her pistol tightly, she slid round another corner…to a dead end. Where was Mireille?

--

The answer to that question could only be answered by the two people, Ms Conroy, and Mireille, bound tightly - a captive.

"No answers?" said the deep voice of Ms Conroy, "Very well, little girl."

Mireille heard a metallic clang, and she knew what was coming next. Deborah had picked up a knife. Dull footsteps sounded on a stone floor.

They were coming closer.

**end of part one**

_**Note: **Apologies for the many uses of 'sweep' et al, but I wasn't able to find a satisfactory replacement. Apart from that, it's lovely to be writing about Noir again. I don't know when the next chapter will be ready, so it could be any time from a week to the new year. Just hopefully not longer…Finally, reviews are greatly, and deeply appreciated._

**Disclaimer:** Noir is copyright to ADV Films; and the story to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (this includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


	2. Part Two

_**Note:**__ Dear me, it's now June. What can I say, but sincerest apologies for my procrastination. My writer's block is horrific and frequent, but there is nothing I can do about it. As to this story, I am still unsure whether this is set pre- or post-'__**Birth**__'; for frankly it could be either. I am also unsure as to make this a short story, focusing on this situation, or to expand it. I have several ideas either way, so any feedback and ideas as to your possible preference is deeply appreciated; as are reviews of a more general nature. My deepest gratitude for the reviews submitted so far; they were wonderful to receive and read. So, anyway: the continuation._

**A w a k e n i n g s**

**part two by JetNoir**

A secret game, played across continents and centuries. It's pawns are humans, it's penalty, death. Ideals, terror, control. These are the desires of the Soldats, cruel and unrelenting as they are.

--

Paris

The blade would have reflected the dull light in the small adjoining room, if it's small blade had not been coated in dark red blood.

Deborah Conroy, agoraphobic, sat in a small room - grateful that she was not claustrophobic as well - a room that adjourned the one where she was detaining the assassin Mirielle Bouquet. Separated from her captive by only a wall, with small open door, she could hear the slight whimpering of pain that slid toward her.

Conroy was not a sadist, she took no pleasure in this torture (not that it was yielding any results anyway) but this was her home. She couldn't leave it, and now the Soldats were encroaching upon her sanctuary. She did not believe her sin was such to warrant such attention, and that this was all rather unnecessary. Still, she had not ordered the assassins, the Soldats had. And it must be them.

Taking a deep breath she opened the second drawer of the desk beside her, placed her hand inside and withdrew a small sheet of paper folded in half. It was a message, received nine days ago. It read:

**Rejoin us.**

The note was unsigned, but Conroy knew who it had come from. The only people it could have come from.

--

America

It is twenty years ago; a time of great tension within the U.S.A. The country was facing off against Russia, in a cold way that had seemed like it had lasted for an eternity. Here, in this paranoid nation, a small group of Soldat cells existed. The reach of the organisation was not limitless and it's power in America was limited also; so the cells operated mostly independently, responding to Europe only when a direct order was sent. This time an order had been sent with an operative, Conroy, who was a callous analyst with a talent for observation, and a talent for murder.

The American cell took an instant dislike to her, as she did to them, but under the requirements of the organisation, they mostly kept this mutual distrust to themselves, and they were just about able to work with each other.

The orders which Conroy had been sent with were simple, it was to do with the acquisition (a word used in the most general of terms) with the acquisition of a certain book. One that was, in an English translation, named: _The Dark Return._

--

Paris

Returning to the present day, Conroy shook her head, and brought her mind out of the memory. She wondered why it was so relevant to her current situation she had brought it up. No answer came.

She looked at what else was in the drawer. It was empty, except for a watch. A pocket watch, engraved with the images of two maidens, both holding swords. She had received it such a long time ago; for she was no longer a young woman - indeed she was getting older. She was losing the ways she had protected herself, and must resort to such base methods.

She couldn't leave the house.

She _wanted_ to leave the house.

Conroy was at an utter loss. Cornered like a frightened rabbit, she felt terrified in a way she hadn't felt since America. Since that mission, twenty years ago.

It was time. She must continue now, or she never would.

Deborah picked up the knife and walked back into the other room, moving the harsh spotlight that was blazing across Mirielle's face. For the first time in an hour, Mirielle opened her eyes to darkness.

"Now," said Conroy quietly, "where were we?"

--

Cairo

The bookshop was deserted, apart from the five people lying dead upon the floor; and the two Knights who had murdered them. Brutally, coldly. There was also Bruffort.

"Sir," said one mask-clad Knight, looking towards their superior, "sir, we must move. Events will be unfolding in Paris, and the council want us to return immediately." Then he stood silent, awaiting a response, and carefully wiping the blood from his sword.

"Of course," replied Bruffort, "I understand."

"Sir," said the other Knight, "I'm still not sure I understand. Why did you use Noir for this assassination, and not inform them as to the true nature of their clients?"

"Because," said Bruffort angrily, "they did not need to know. Nor do you. Remember your place…and at whose pleasure you serve."

The Knight bowed, and moved away as Bruffort strode forward, to behind the counter. Reaching down he picked up the book he had been searching for; searching for such a long time.

It was a copy of _The Dark Return._

--

Paris

Kirika was still lost.

She had been searching the house for around two hours, and still nothing. Despite the house's size, it was still impossible to gain one's bearings. It had been cunningly designed, almost as if a maze; and if one were not intimately aware of it's walls, doors, and corridors, then one might become as lost as Kirika. She had only covered a fraction of this house, and yet…another dead end.

Throwing caution to the wind, Kirika opened her mouth and screamed: "MIRIELLE!" over and over. The assassination had gone wrong, and now Kirika didn't care anymore. She desperately wanted…no, needed her partner back.

Tears began to streak down her face. Never before, not even in Japan, had she felt so desperately alone. Even in Japan, she knew where her current situation was - despite the amnesia. Here…she as if she were crippled, and that she had lost her crutch. Her friend.

"MIRIELLE! MIRIELLE!"

The screams still got louder, and in a rage of desperation, her free hand shot out and hit the wall, hard. Kirika didn't notice the shot of pain, but dropped her gun, and slammed her other hand onto the wall. Again, and again, she punched the brick and paper, screaming Mirielle's name.

She soon grew exhausted and dropped to the floor.

She had never been so scared her entire life, and while cradling her bleeding hands, she wondered if the impossible had happened.

If Mirielle Bouquet, daughter of Corsica, were dead.

**end of part two**

_**Note:**__ I am personally unsure as to whether the American and Egyptian books are one and the same copy; but either way the books are related within the story, being of the same source. For fans of Chloe and Altena, due to my current indecision of the setting, be it pre- or post-'__**Birth**__'; I'm haven't included them yet. If I ever do make up my mind (or anyone who reads this expresses a preference,) then they could be entered into the next chapter. Finally, I promise to get the next chapter up before six months have elapsed!! Thankyou for your patience._

**Disclaimer:** Noir is copyright to ADV Films; and the story to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (this includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!

**JetNoir**


End file.
